


Only Yours to Give

by antivan-beau (sheepsinthenight)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Antivan Crows, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fantasy Racism, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Canon, World of Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepsinthenight/pseuds/antivan-beau
Summary: A day in the life of our three favorite Crows: a Chantry visit full of lust, lies, mishaps, and murder. As Isabela would say, "It was all very... Antivan."
Relationships: Rinna/Taliesen (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Rinna, Zevran Arainai/Rinna/Taliesen, Zevran Arainai/Taliesen
Comments: 45
Kudos: 26
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	1. See me kneel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluestra195](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestra195/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"O Creator, see me kneel:  
>  For I walk only where you would bid me.  
> Stand only in places you have blessed.  
> Sing only the words you place in my throat."_
> 
> _\- Andraste's Prayer before the siege of Minrathous_

Zevran Arainai knelt in a shadowed gallery overlooking the grandest Chantry sanctuary in Antiva City. He had a grave and perilous job ahead of him. He also had a leg cramp.

Before him, the Cathedral of Our Lady the Redeemer sprawled in an opulent glory of marble, oil paint, and gold leaf. High stained glass windows cast dappled shadows, like filtered light onto a forest floor. Frescoes covered every wall: legends from the birth of the world to the fall of the Golden City, scenes from Andraste’s life, depictions of the world to come when the Chant resounded from every corner of the Maker’s domain. 

The columned gallery ran the length of the sanctuary at balcony-height, back from the ornate entry doors, up to the altar where Andraste stood carved from rose-veined marble. The gallery was rarely used, except on holidays when minor nobility crowded the pews on the polished floor. Common folk were relegated to craning their necks and straining to catch the Grand Cleric’s words.

But this was an ordinary afternoon, and Zevran was alone. Below him, a handful of humans and elves sat scattered in the pews, awaiting confession with varying degrees of patience and anxiety. Periodically, a Sister would approach someone with a touch to their shoulder, then guide them like ghostly shepherds toward the booths at the back of the sanctuary.

Like every Antivan Crow, Zevran had attended services since childhood. By the end of their training, many Crows’ devotion was more out of habit than piety, but Zevran still found some solace within Chantry walls. He was a man who liked beautiful things; beautiful buildings were no exception.

He finished his recitation without hesitation or self-consciousness. Andraste’s prayer before battle struck him as appropriate in light of the day ahead.

He cast a furtive glance down the long gallery, toward the closed door that led to the staircase that brought him here. Satisfied that the corridor was still empty, he let his gaze drift outward again to the statue that dwarfed the hall. When he spoke again, barely above a murmur, it wasn’t to recite prescribed words.

“With your blessing and forgiveness, I will finish this job with as much mercy as I can manage. Additionally…” his hands still folded, Zevran offered a sigh and a shrug, “I apologize in advance for poisoning the holy water. I did try to think of a better option. In the grand scheme of things, I both hope and suspect this minor blasphemy won’t tip the scales. But nevertheless - I am sorry.”

The door at the end of the gallery creaked. Zevran turned his head barely a fraction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman in the white and crimson robes of a lay Sister catch the handle so the door shut softly behind her.

He dropped his eyes to the columned rail. After a steadying breath, he offered a muttered conclusion, the standard: “In the name of Andraste, your bride and champion, our prophet and redeemer.”

The Sister wore hard-heeled shoes that echoed down the gallery. The sound grew louder with her approach. He kept his gaze downcast.

The pew behind him creaked as she sat down. Her robes rustled softly when she crossed her legs.

“There’s just something stirring about seeing you on your knees, Zevran.”

“At the mercy of a beautiful woman? Ready to serve her every whim?” He couldn’t help his smile as he turned to look up at her.

Rinna’s full lips quirked. “We _are_ talking about Andraste, aren’t we?”

He put a hand to his heart, mock-scandalized. “What else would we be talking about?”

Rinna Arainai had eyes like a bird of prey with a sense of humor. Patient and exacting; dangerous, but with a shining mirth like she’d told a joke you hadn’t caught onto yet. A few tight curls had come loose from her Sister’s hood to frame her heart-shaped face. Her skin was a darker, richer brown than his own. The smile she flashed warmed Zevran’s stomach like wine. 

There was something about Rinna that left him feeling perpetually eager and tremulous - off-balance. Generally, when attractive people asserted themselves in his life, Zevran’s response was an instinctive, _Oh yes._

Rinna was the first person for whom the thought had arrived as, _Oh no._

Beyond that, he could scarcely articulate the difference. He just did his best to keep up with her. Of course, it didn’t help that she seemed to like him off-balance a great deal.

“I spotted Don Belacoros on the North Road,” Rinna said brightly. “Just past the Hangman’s bridge.”

Zevran scrambled back to a seated position beside her. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

She shrugged and spread her arms over the back of the pew, her picture of nonchalance decidedly un-Sisterlike. “We’ve got a little time to prepare. He’s in a carriage and slowed by traffic. I took side streets to get back here.” She produced a silver argento coin and began dancing it across the knuckles of her left hand. “Also, he’s got his Vashoth bodyguard with him.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Taliesen will be so pleased to have something to do.”

Rinna huffed a weary sigh. “I’m sure Master Eoman wouldn’t complain if we killed her, but I don’t want Taliesen getting distracted.”

“He’ll love hearing that from you.”

She ignored his ribbing and persisted. “Yuria Saraad is a problem for another squad, another day. Just stick to the plan. If we don’t kill Belacoros this afternoon, tomorrow he casts his tax vote on the City Council, and Eoman dumps our corpses into the nearest canal.”

Zevran looked unperturbed. He rose in an easy movement. “I’ll let Taliesen know it’s time to get into position.”

“Right. I’ve got a bit to prepare, myself.”

“And what do you have left to do?”

Her smile widened. “I’ve got to find a promising sap to set up. You don’t think that takes time?” Rinna palmed the argento. It disappeared somewhere in her robe’s sleeve as she stood. When she took a step closer, her eyes were serious. “Zev - I need you to pass something along to Taliesen for me.”

“Of course.” At once, he was all Crow professionalism.

Rinna glanced back toward the door, then craned her neck to look cautiously between the columns, down to the sanctuary below. Then she tugged Zevran by the collar of his tunic deeper into the gallery’s shadow, where she kissed him, slow and filthy.

Pressed against the line of her body, Zevran kissed her back and thought of sailors waylaid by sirens. Happy even as they drowned.

Rinna pulled away first. She bit her shining lower lip, and Zevran felt his stomach flutter.

“I think I can manage that,” he said softly. Although his heart was pounding, Zevran wasn’t going to let her leave without trying for the upper hand. He reached out to tuck a few curls beneath her hood. He brushed callused fingers against the pointed tip of her ear, and was rewarded by Rinna's small shiver. 

“You know,” he murmured, “I’ve always dreamed of kissing a Chantry Sister.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Think I should hold onto the robe once we’re through here?”

His answering chuckle was delighted, incredulous. “You are a wicked, wicked woman.”

“Would you have me any other way?” Rinna kissed his cheek. She moved to pull away, but Zevran’s hand on her hip stopped her. 

He leaned forward. Without the cloth of her hood, his lips would have brushed her ear. “I can think of quite a few ways I’d like to have you.”

She laughed as she shoved him away. “Go!”

With a little bow, Zevran turned toward the door, willing blood to return to his brain from its rapid journey to other body parts.

Somewhere above him, bells rang out the fourth hour of the afternoon.


	2. Know my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _My Maker, know my heart:  
>  Take from me a life of sorrow.  
> Lift me from a world of pain.  
> Judge me worthy of your endless pride._  
>    
>  _\- Andraste's Prayer before the siege of Minrathous_

Zevran knew the winding route from the sanctuary down to the music rooms as surely as he knew the steps from his bed to his wardrobe. The trio had spent weeks on reconnaissance for this contract. If pressed, any of them could have drawn the cathedral floor plan from memory.

None of the vaulted corridors were empty, but the Chantry was far from crowded. On his way, Zevran passed two dozen parishioners and pilgrims. The former were identifiable by their brisk urban stride, the latter from their looks of slack-jawed wonder. Soft conversation in Antivan and Trade became a susurrus echoing between stone alcoves. It was an easy smattering of people to move between and become conveniently lost within.

A few Sisters passed him, traveling in knots of twos and threes. The attached convent attracted a steady stream of new followers, eager for simpler lives or to atone for past wrongdoing. While many Sisters sought the Maker’s forgiveness, one of their primary duties was to offer that forgiveness to others.

The faithful of Antiva City, from the lowest commoner to the wealthiest merchant prince, made confession a few times a year. It was common to confess to denote a new beginning: in preparation for a voyage, before closing a business deal, or ahead of a major political decision.

Don Vincenzo Belacoros was an eminently faithful man.

It had been Rinna’s insight that nobility must have a private spot to confess their sins, with some security and anonymity, and without the risk of sitting somewhere a commoner’s backside had sat. Cautious exploration had produced the location: a tucked-away corner of a choir rehearsal room.

In her stint undercover as a new lay Sister, Rinna had finessed the Revered Mother’s correspondence to hide Don Belacoros’ request for an appointment. Instead, Rinna replied to his letter herself, forging the Revered Mother’s handwriting and borrowing her seal.

This afternoon, there would be no priestess waiting in the private room, behind her wooden screen. Instead, there would be Taliesen. Zevran would act as lookout, and Rinna would arrange a distraction to keep bystanders away from the scene. The trio had anticipated a manservant rather than a bodyguard, but this was a complication that could be dealt with. Tradition dictated that Belacoros would enter the confessional room alone, while his companion waited outside.

As Zevran moved from the Chantry’s heart to its periphery, the passersby thinned. His route took him around the cloister gallery: a square corridor with a center courtyard open to the elements. A few humans and elves milled on the grass, sitting on benches beneath gold-tinged leaves, or admiring the stone columns that separated the walkway from the courtyard. Each column’s capital was exquisitely carved with birds and beasts. 

The afternoon was sunny but cool. As he crossed the courtyard, a gust of wind cut through Zevran’s tunic. It tugged a few leaves from one of the trees, scattering them across the gallery’s stone floor.

He passed through an interior door, and the thick cathedral stone sheltered him from the wind once more. The brisk walk made a good match for his mood.

Just before he arrived at his destination, however, another complication presented itself. 

Zevran stopped short at the mouth of a narrow corridor. Blocking his way was a young man in the skirted plate armor of the Templar Order. His shaggy brown hair needed a trim, and at some point in the recent past, his blotchy, pale skin had needed better sun protection. Although he looked Zevran’s age, his poise made him seem younger than three-and-twenty. He leaned casually against a stone column, then started when he saw he wasn’t alone, puffing up his chest as he stood to attention.

Some long-ago political squabble determined that the City Watch weren’t appropriate guardians for a cathedral. A small dispatch of templars maintained a presence on the premises to protect the Chantry from threats both magical and mundane. But there’d never been a guard stationed here during the trio’s scouting.

Zevran’s face didn’t betray his irritation. Instead, he allowed a quizzical smile to settle in place as he approached.

“What are you still doing here?” he asked mildly.

The templar remained at near-comical attention. “Come again?”

Zevran gestured backward with his thumb. “I just passed the Knight-Captain on his way out. I believe he was gathering a platoon to make inquiries about those circus performers in the East Market.”

“He - he what?”

“Well, surely you've heard the rumors that a few of them might be apostates. He has to take these things seriously.”

“Nobody told me about any… inquiries.” The young man screwed up his face in an earnest expression of consternation.

“Hmm. Well it sounded fairly serious. But perhaps he only took higher-ranking, more important templars with him. I mean - ” Zevran allowed himself a moment to look suitably mortified, “I apologize, how very thoughtless.”

“No, it’s alright.” Watching this man think was like watching a dwarven clock. One could almost see the wheels turning. “In the East Market, did you say?”

Zevran held up his hands. “That is simply what I overheard. But I didn’t mean to presume anything. If you were not approached about this special job, perhaps you should just stay where you were stationed.”

Their exchange was brief, after that. Soon enough, Zevran found himself staring at the templar’s retreating back. 

As far as Zevran knew, there was absolutely nothing resembling a circus troupe in the East Market, so the lie was harmless. Still, he found himself smiling as he continued down the hallway, imagining the man’s consternation when he arrived at the scene, blocks away.

Large, arched windows lined the empty corridor, with glass cut into interlocking diamonds. Interspersed among the clear panels were shards of cerulean like lost sapphires. The afternoon light shining through gave the hallway a dreamy, undersea feeling.

Zevran stopped before the third door in the hall. Beside it, an alcove had been carved into the stone wall at waist height. Resting inside was a wide, shallow basin of holy water. He allowed his gaze to linger on it for a moment, before he knocked three times against the door and let himself inside. 

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to dim candlelight. The room’s only window was covered by a heavy, velvet curtain. 

Inside, chairs stood in rows atop a series of narrow wooden platforms built up from the floor. Another wall was lined with box-shelves for scrolls and papers, neatly packed away.

On the opposite wall from the shelves was the confessional booth. It was smaller than the ones in the sanctuary, but the box for the penitent had an ornately-carved door rather than a simple curtain. Although the booth was nothing more than a fancy piece of furniture, the dark wood had a gravitas that held Zevran’s gaze. That little room held secrets never again spoken aloud.

Taliesen Arainai had his boots up on the choir director’s desk, fingers laced behind his head. His eyes flicked open when Zevran entered, before he swung his feet to the floor and stood. 

Taliesen had the waist of a dancer and the arms of an oarsman. He moved with precise energy, like a snake comfortably coiled but ready to pivot to a strike. His dark hair was just long enough to show a slight curl. He had a neatly-trimmed beard, contrasting with a distinctively crooked nose after it had been broken and hastily reset, years ago. He was also, in a roguish and decidedly Antivan way, quite handsome.

Zevran met him in the center of the room, where they clasped forearms.

By way of introduction, Zevran said, “I bring a message from our strategist.”

“Oh?”

Zevran held nothing back when he kissed him. He felt the flicker of Taliesen’s smile against his lips, before his mouth opened and their kiss deepened. Zevran slid one hand up to the soft hair at the back of Taliesen’s neck, while his other hand moved lower. The message concluded with an emphatic squeeze of Taliesen’s ass, before the taller man shoved him away with a wry chuckle.

“Ridiculous,” Taliesen grumbled.

“Alright, I confess, that last bit was from me - ”

“Have you got anything useful to report?” A ruddy flush colored his cheeks. He failed to look entirely displeased.

“Now that you mention it…” Zevran hopped up to sit on the edge of the desk. “Don Vincenzo Belacoros approaches. And he’s got Yuria Saraad accompanying him.”

Grim delight transformed Taliesen’s smile. “So the Vashoth bitch makes a return. Sounds like we have some vengeance in order.”

“Funny you should mention that. Rinna was worried you might find yourself distracted, chasing glory.”

“‘Chasing glory?’” Taliesen said incredulously. “How about ‘preserving our reputation?’ Crow killers don’t walk free and fearless - ”

Zevran sighed. “Someone else will avenge the Valisti squad. For all we know, there is already a contract on Yuria’s life.”

Taliesen tried an appeal to reason. “But if we _happened_ to kill her, that would save someone else the trouble.”

“I will be the one standing outside with her, Taliesen. I am not ashamed to admit that I cannot best her in a fair fight.” Zevran smiled ruefully. “And I haven’t had time to orchestrate an _unfair_ one.”

Taliesen crossed his arms over his chest. “Trade places with me, then. You wait here for Belacoros, and I’ll go outside on lookout. Then if an opportunity presents itself, I’ll deal with Yuria.”

Zevran paused. “That very much does not sound like ‘sticking to the plan,’ my friend.”

“Rinna changes plans at the last minute all the time.”

“She’s cleverer than you.” Taliesen opened his mouth to protest, but Zevran continued, softer. “Master Eoman will be impressed enough if we can succeed on a contract where a Third Talon squad failed. There is little need to impress him further.”

“There’s always a need.” Taliesen barked a laugh. “Maker’s fucking breath, where is your sense of personal initiative?”

Zevran smiled. “Reserved exclusively for the pursuit of leisure, I assure you.” 

Silence fell, somewhere between companionable and tense. That was how things often were between them, these days. 

Taliesen stretched his arms above his head until something cracked, then rolled his shoulders. He reached back between his shoulder blades with a little frown. “I think a belt’s funny. Help me out?”

Zevran slid off the desk as Taliesen turned around, shrugging off an unlaced doublet. Without the jacket, two distinctly blade-shaped lumps were visible beneath his tunic. When Taliesen lifted his shirt, he revealed a sheathed short sword against his spine, with a shorter dagger strapped horizontally across his lower back. One of the straps that held the sword in place had been buckled backward with a twist.

Zevran reached out to undo a buckle, with the casual intimacy of someone who’d helped his friend get into and out of armor more times than he could count. A striking tattoo spread across Taliesen’s broad shoulders: the feathered mask of the Antivan Crows. Zevran had to admire his own handiwork, although the shading was still half-finished. They had planned another session once they completed this contract.

Looking at the tattoo left him feeling fond, and perhaps a touch bittersweet. Here was his oldest friend, the only other boy who survived everything their masters had thrown at them, by virtue of his strength, tenacity, and dumb luck. Humoring Taliesen always went against Zevran’s better judgment. And yet…

The strap untwisted, Zevran slid the buckle back into place. “Alright,” he said softly. “I can handle Belacoros. Wait for my signal that it’s finished, then I’ll throw open the door. You get Yuria inside, and we can face her together.” Zevran dropped the edge of the tunic, letting it flutter back into place to cover the blades again. “Rinna will be terribly upset with us if we die, you know.”

“We’re the best, Zev. Who cares what Yuria did to some assholes from Valisti? She wasn’t up against us.” He turned around. In a swift movement, he had a hand against Zevran’s chest, and pushed him backward until his legs knocked against the desk.

Zevran arched upward to close the distance between them, but Taliesen pulled back with a soft chuckle, even as the press of his hips kept Zevran in place.

Their lips a breath apart, Taliesen growled, “Don’t kiss me like that and then lecture me about distractions.”

Zevran couldn’t stifle his smirk. “Take it up with our strategist. I am merely the messenger.”

“So you’re blameless, then? Shame to see you so ill-used.”

“Think you can use me better?”

Taliesen released him. “Ask me again in an hour. We’ve got work to do.”


	3. Hear my cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _O Maker, hear my cry:  
>  Seat me by your side in death.  
> Make me one within your glory.  
> And let the world once more see your favor._
> 
> _\- Andraste's Prayer before the siege of Minrathous_

Thus it was Taliesen who slipped back into the blue corridor. The arched stone ceiling carried the murmur of conversation from the nearby cloister, although there was no one in sight.

Still, he kept his back to the hallway’s entrance. Shielding his movements from view, he leaned over the alcove’s basin of holy water. 

With their parting kiss, Zevran had pressed a small glass vial into his hand. Now, Taliesen tugged open the stopper and poured its contents into the pool. 

The water took on a faint, oil-slick sheen. Lit by the blue windows, Taliesen found the change hard to spot even though he knew what to look for. He took this as a good sign.

Very few substances could kill outright in such a trace amount, but Zevran had assured his partners that Don Belacoros would at least spend his last moments with weak muscles and uncoordinated movements. Although the plan was simply to slit his throat the moment he stepped into the music room, if Belacoros offered any resistance, poisoning would make a fight simpler.

Was it too much to hope that Yuria Saraad was a faithful Andrastian, so she might follow suit? Probably. 

Local legend had it that 0the Vashoth began her career in Antiva City as a dockside bruiser. She’d risen to prominence as a bodyguard for hire - first for ship captains, then for the merchant princes who paid them. Her longest stint so far had been in the employ of the their current mark.

Taliesen knew he was far from the only Crow with a vendetta against her. A month ago, when a Valisti squad made the first attempt on Belacoros’ life, Yuria single-handedly killed three assassins when they broke into his palazzo. It was a painful loss for any House, but particularly humiliating for the House that had so recently earned Third Talon.

The Valisti masters only learned Yuria was responsible because the fourth man in the squad had escaped the palazzo. He’d made it as far as the city gates before his masters caught him. When he volunteered the details of the failed mission, his only reward was a painless death.

The whole reason Taliesen had bid on the Belacoros contract was to succeed where a greater House had failed. And Master Eoman had been pleased. His ambition to pull his House from the ranks of the cuchillos was as naked as Taliesen’s own desire to be promoted to master.

The chance, not only to kill their mark, but to take down the woman who’d bested “better” Crows - that was too tempting to pass up. 

Which was why Taliesen had no intention of waiting for Zevran’s signal before he attacked Yuria. A _moment_ of hesitation was too long. They ran the risk that she'd hear something inside the room. The second the door closed behind Belacoros, Taliesen would strike.

Maybe Rinna was right and he was chasing glory. She was usually right, so that didn’t help matters. But what was the harm in chasing glory if they deserved the accolades? As far as Taliesen could tell, his lovers had little interest in Crow politics. At least one of them had to think about their futures.

Why did _he_ believe he could succeed where a higher ranking House failed? Well, because he had the element of surprise on his side. Also, because he was very fucking good at his job.

Taliesen stood in the hallway, hands clasped behind his back. Through the thick window glass, he watched leafless trees in the empty convent garden, branches shivering in the breeze. If anyone had wandered by, he might have looked lost in prayerful contemplation. 

He pondered how he’d kill Yuria inaudibly. The shape of the corridors carried sound too easily. One sword clang could easily draw people's attention in the cloister. What might happen if he could splash the poisoned water into her eyes or mouth? The swordsman’s gloves he wore offered enough protection to make it an option. But that was too clumsy, too unpredictable. The safest option was simply to strike to kill her on the first blow. Slit her throat if she was wearing leathers, find her heart through her ribcage if she wasn't.

At the edge of hearing, two sets of footsteps echoed on the polished floor. They approached from the opposite direction from the cloister route, quiet but drawing nearer. A prickle crept across Taliesen’s skin. His focus narrowed. He could feel the draft through the window seams, feel the hair on his arms stand on-end beneath his doublet. He took a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

His fingers flexed without his conscious direction. If he was spotted holding a weapon, the game was up. But if he wanted to kill Yuria, she’d see him move and wouldn’t give him time to draw.

After a moment’s deliberation, he reached back below his shirt and tugged his shorter dagger from its sheath. He cupped the pommel in his palm, keeping the blade against his left forearm, hidden from view from the corridor’s mouth. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them.

Vincenzo Belacoros was a thin man in his mid-thirties, with dark hair pulled back into a simple tail. He had tried to dress down for the occasion. His breeches and doublet were cut from unadorned, slate grey linen. A simple half-cloak protected him from the chill. His boots, however, gave his status away. The heels had the resonant click of stacked wood, not commoners’ hobnails, and the leather had a warm luster that only came from fine calfskin treated well. Zevran would have approved.

Belacoros appeared unarmed. His bodyguard did not.

Taliesen was a tall man, but Yuria Saraad was a head taller, even discounting her horns. Her white hair was shorn close to her scalp. She wore a sleeveless leather cuirass over her tunic, and close-fitting breeches designed for easy movement. At one hip swung a sheathed blade, too long to be called a rapier but too slender and beautiful to be called a greatsword. The heavy gloves she wore allowed her to draw at a moment’s notice. Her gait was relaxed and measured, a perfect two steps behind her employer.

Tension sung down Taliesen’s spine. He kept his glance brief, then casually turned his attention back out the window. His left hand twitched around the pommel of his dagger.

The pair was five steps away, then four. The Don’s gaze slid over Taliesen in a manner that indicated that the assassin was entirely below his interest.

Two steps from where Taliesen stood, they paused before the alcove with the basin. Yuria stepped smartly around the Don’s thin body. Without removing her gloves, she touched two fingers on both hands to the surface of the water. Then she touched her fingers to her closed eyes, then to her lips, then over her heart. 

She _was_ Andrastean.

Taliesen realized he’d stopped breathing.

Beside her, Belacoros was pulling off his own gloves to repeat the gesture.

A giddy tingling began in the pit of Taliesen’s stomach. To think he’d been ready to do this the hard way. It seemed the Maker had granted him a reprieve.

The feeling lasted about three seconds.

“STOP HIM!”

A woman’s shout echoed from a distant hallway. Some trick of the vaulted ceiling made her voice as clear as if she stood beside them. Taliesen started. His little jump mirrored the Don’s, who whirled around to look toward the corridor’s entrance. Yuria’s hand came to rest lightly on the pommel of her sword.

There was no one in sight.

The Don’s voice was clipped, with the precise diction of upper class. “What in Andraste's name - ”

Somewhere, the woman screamed.

Belacoros looked back to his bodyguard. Yuria shrugged. Taliesen heard him mutter, “Where’s a bloody templar when you need one?”

The Don pulled his gloves back into place. In the space of Taliesen’s confused blink, Belacoros pushed off with his heel and ran back down the hallway toward the sound. His bodyguard followed two smart steps behind him.

* * *

Rinna had left her rendezvous in the sanctuary gallery trying to suppress a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She knew she should be mortified by how fond of her squad mates she'd become. If she was being honest with herself, especially Zevran. Fortunately, it was still incredibly easy to lie to him.

Instead of heading directly for the cloister to take up her position, she took a detour deeper into the cathedral’s winding passages. She found her way into a windowless corridor, heavy tapestries on her left and right leaving the narrow hallway even narrower.

A young woman stood in the awning of a closed door, glancing around with the kind of guilty self-consciousness that rendered secretive behavior utterly conspicuous. Her brown hair was loose and lank. She wore a simple cotton dress, lent a little shape by a plain bodice.

When they made eye contact, the woman’s mouth went slack. She peered openly at Rinna’s face, tilting her head to get a better angle. 

Rinna resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

This was what happened when you tried to juggle too many balls. Things got inconvenient. Sometimes, you had to meet with a messenger about your royal coup on the same day you were planning to murder a lord on the City Council. One worked things out somehow.

Rinna drew closer. She kept her voice soft, with none of the twinkling humor from earlier. “You’re with Bianchi, right?”

The woman - probably no older than twenty, so Rinna mentally downgraded her to ‘girl’ - visibly swallowed. “I am, signorina.”

“So what’s the news?”

“The Doña is willing to lend her aid to your claim.”

“Really,” Rinna replied, too flat to be a question. “Thought she might take longer to come around. Out of curiosity, was it the offer to reclaim her family lands in Seleny that convinced her, or was it the very detailed letter about what would happen to her son if she refused?”

The girl stuttered. “I - I wouldn’t know - ”

Rinna sighed and said gently, “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“But she wants to discuss her terms at a meeting tonight.”

“I’m busy tonight,” Rinna said, with the confident assurance of a woman with two lovers she’d been intentionally tormenting for days. “Tell your mistress she’ll hear from one of my agents. Receive a missive or something.”

The girl swallowed again. “Doña Bianchi said it was important that you meet her tonight. At her family’s property in the Vespara District - ”

“You have my message already.”

The girl pursed her lips, biting back her next remark. She obviously didn’t relish delivering this news, but was coming to understand that she didn’t have another option. Her eyes flicked over Rinna’s face again - a familiar sweep from eyes to lips to chin.

Rinna heaved a deeper sigh. “Stop staring.”

The girl had the decency to look embarrassed. “My apologies, signorina. It’s just that, you really look _just_ like - ”

“Yes, I’ve been told. Thank the Maker it’s the guildmasters’ faces on the money and not his, eh?” Rinna waited expectantly, then folded her arms over her chest. “Our business is concluded.”

The girl departed one way down the tapestry-covered hallway. Rinna departed the other.

As Rinna made her way to her next destination, she found she'd stopped caring if she smiled. Contacting Doña Fillipa Bianchi had been a risky ploy, but Rosso Noche’s informants hadn’t steered her wrong yet. Her plans were falling into place faster than she’d dared hope.

But she wasn’t queen yet, so she still had work to do. As day jobs went, _assassin_ suited her just fine.

Rinna arrived at the cloister perhaps ten minutes after Zevran had passed. A chill breeze caught her off-guard as she stepped into the columned gallery. It took her a single glance to select a target for her planned performance. 

Walking purposefully through the center of the courtyard was a man about her age, with a canvas bag on a long strap slung across one shoulder. He had the olive skin and dark hair of an Antivan alienage elf. That he was an elf gave Rinna a pang of something like regret. She knew she passed for human with her Sister’s hood up; the dynamic would play to onlookers’ expectations.

In the gallery’s shadow, Rinna let a worn coin purse fall from her sleeve into her palm. She held it in a stage magician’s concealed grip.

She stepped into the courtyard and made a course toward the man. As she drew closer, she offered a self-conscious smile and angled to his left. When he moved to his right, she wove into him, checking his shoulder. In the jarred moment that followed, she slipped the purse into his open satchel.

When they separated, Rinna held her empty palms up in apology. “Excuse me, signore, I’m so sorry.”

A flush colored the man’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. “No no, forgive me. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Rinna flashed him her best lay Sister smile: warm and beatific. 

He made an awkward bow of acknowledgment. Rinna bobbed a curtsy. 

She continued a few steps past him, then stopped with a little frown. She patted the pockets of her robes, then looked around, visibly puzzled.

A pair of older men, decidedly human, sat on a bench nearby. Rinna approached them with an apologetic smile. “I hate to be a bother, but I think I dropped a leather purse. Did you see something fall just now?”

The elder of the two, with lines around his eyes and more salt than pepper in his beard, spoke first. “You lost it just now?”

“Yes, I’m almost certain.” She let a little distress creep into her voice. “The Revered Mother gave me some money to go to the East Market this afternoon for candles. Maker’s breath, I’m so clumsy - ”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes darted to the elf’s retreating back, just as he reached the edge of the courtyard and was about to duck beneath the covered walkway. Rinna watched a flash of grim suspicion light up the man's eyes. As easy as anything.

“Signore,” Salt-and-Pepper called out.

The elf turned at the sound. His brows knit in confusion when he realized he was the target of the shout. He started back toward them.

The man murmured to his friend, “Where’s a bloody templar when you need one?” His next remark came a little louder. “What’s your name, signore?”

The elf regarded him warily. “Feylen.” He offered no surname.

“Feylen!” The second man, beardless but with greying ginger hair almost roan, took up where his friend left off. “I hate to ask, but would you mind turning out the contents of your bag?”

Wariness darkened to suspicion. “What? Why - ”

“Our Sister here has lost a coin purse. And her ill-fortune seems to have struck just as _you_ struck her, hmm?”

“How dare you. This suspicion is baseless. And completely false.” Feylen kept his voice low and measured, but he clearly had to work to keep his cool.

The small scene had already drawn the attention of everyone else in the cloister. Now Rinna simply had to make sure things stayed interesting enough that no one would wander away, possibly down a nearby corridor, possibly overhearing some strange and morbid sounds. 

She stepped between human and elf, earnest concern etched into her frown. She looked to the two men still seated on the bench. “This is quite unnecessary. I had no intention to accuse - ”

“If he’s innocent,” Salt-and-Pepper drawled, “he can easily prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove a damn thing!”

Rinna then turned to Feylen. She spoke with the gentle indulgence she’d use for a child. “Signore, I don’t believe you stole anything. But perhaps it would be simpler just to set their minds at ease?” 

Feylen’s shoulders rose and fell. His face went stony with anger. Then he reached into his satchel in a swift, furious movement. 

Rinna watched the tendons in his arm flex, and imagined his fingers closing around the little purse he found there. Several expressions flitted across his face - first confusion, then surprise, then a narrowing of his eyes that she recognized a moment too late as “calculating odds.”

Feylen took two shaking steps backward. Then he spun around and took his next steps at a run. 

Rinna had to make sure her face fell in shock. Inwardly, she was somewhere between surprise and amusement. The elf ran toward the far door that would take him to the cathedral’s center and away from the confessional room where her companions waited. 

This would cause a more effective distraction than she’d ever dreamed. Only the Maker knew what was going through the poor bastard’s head when he decided to run.

Rinna took a deep breath, then pointed with a trembling finger as she bellowed, “STOP HIM!”

The purse she’d planted contained nothing more substantial than copper maravedis, but she planned to pursue it like it was stuffed with a full bastard's worth of andris.

The two human men she’d spoken to got unsteadily to their feet.

Rinna was much faster. She took off after the would-be-thief. In a few steps, she could reach out to grab Feylen’s shoulder. 

To her delight, Feylen shrugged her off and pushed her away. It should have taken far more to knock her down, but Rinna allowed herself to fall backwards as though he’d shoved her to the ground. She landed on her backside with a dazed expression of welling panic.

Several people in the cloister cried out. Rinna lent her voice in the most helpless, keening shout she could muster. She was pleased by her own performance.

When he saw Rinna fall, a young man wearing eyeglasses took off in pursuit after poor Feylen.

Rinna was still on the ground when, ten heartbeats later, two figures darted out from the far doorway. For a mad moment, she assumed they must have been Zevran and Taliesen, except one was a wiry human older than either of them, and the other was a six and a half foot tall woman with horns.

Don Belacoros and Yuria Saraad passed within a hair’s breadth of Rinna as they thundered across the courtyard square.

“He went that way!” Salt-and-Pepper cried, still working to ease a crick from his knee. “That elf robbed a sworn Sister!”

Belacoros’s eyes went wide, before he nodded his acknowledgment. Yuria looked impassive.

Rinna watched as her mark crossed the courtyard, chasing after the planned distraction for his own murder.


	4. Judge me whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _My Creator, judge me whole:  
>  Find me well within your grace.  
> Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.  
> Tell me I have sung to your approval._
> 
> _\- Andraste's Prayer before the siege of Minrathous_
> 
> **Content warning for graphic violence.**

“Zevran!” Taliesen’s muffled voice came through the door.

In the dark music room, crouched beside the confessional booth with both daggers drawn, Zevran nearly jumped. He'd spent the last few minutes concentrating on the sound of slow approaching footsteps. Suddenly, there'd been a distant scream, then rapid _departing_ footsteps.

He transferred both daggers to one hand to yank open the door. Taliesen nearly fell inside.

“He ran off.”

“What?”

“He fucking ran off to save Rinna from reverse-pickpocketing.”

Zevran’s lips pressed into a line. “And you didn’t throw a dagger?”

Taliesen hefted the weapon he held: the blade was hand-and-a-half long. Powerful but poorly weighted. 

With brisk irritation, Zevran reached down to tug a stiletto from one boot. He twirled it to hand to Taliesen by the hilt. 

The taller man heaved a sigh. “Okay, so _you_ could have thrown a dagger at him, fine.”

Zevran graciously decided to drop the subject. “Did he touch the water?”

“No. But _Yuria_ did.”

Zevran blinked. “She’s Andrastean?”

“Who’d have fucking guessed. How unsteady is she going to get? And how fast?”

“Hard to say.” Zevran peered out into the blue corridor, eyebrows knitting. “We could wait here. I’m certain Rinna will guide them back somehow. That would be sticking with the plan.”

From the mouth of the hallway, they could hear shouts and running footsteps.

“To the Void with the plan.” Taliesen sheathed the stiletto in his boot, then the larger dagger against the small of his back. He tugged his doublet back into place, before starting down the hallway at a jog.

A moment later, Zevran followed him.

* * *

When they reached the cloister, Rinna was nowhere to be seen. A brief exchange with an old man on a bench brought them up to speed.

An elven pickpocket had injured a Sister, then fled the scene. The Sister, the man explained, said she was headed back to the convent to recover. And there were at least three people in pursuit of the thief - two human men and a qunari woman.

Of course, the assassins assured him, they’d give chase as well. They’d never let a crime against a Sister go unpunished. 

From the cloister, the pair parted ways. Zevran headed for the cathedral’s front entrance. He planned to alert the templars stationed at the doors, and demand that they allow no one to exit the building until the thief was apprehended. 

Taliesen started in the direction the old man had indicated. He shouldered his way through mingling parishioners and tourists. Casual conversations had turned to hushed whispers. The mood was rising fear and consternation. From what he overheard, Taliesen gathered that the thief and his pursuers had passed this way, then headed up a staircase to the second story.

Down the long, vaulted corridors, he passed hundreds of years of art history. The stairwell alone contained three oil paintings that would have been grand enough to be altarpieces in any other Chantry. In the cathedral, they were little more than afterthoughts.

One story up, the hallways were empty. He went from a jog to a run and prayed he was still headed in the right direction. 

Around the next corner, he came to an almost skidding stop.

There was a body sprawled in the center of the hallway. Taliesen recognized it from the description the old man had given. A pair of shattered eyeglasses lay beside him.

Taliesen did a quick check to confirm that he was alone. He approached the body, rolling the young man onto his back using a booted foot.

The man’s chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. He appeared unharmed but his lips were tinged blue - the telltale sign of sleep soot. It was a nonlethal drug employed by the Crows when murder was indecorous or inconvenient. The color would fade in a few hours, but at the moment, it was conspicuous. Taliesen could easily imagine Rinna lurking in the nearby doorway and tossing the powder into the man’s path.

She must have been in a hurry to leave him lying here. Perhaps something had gone wrong. Or perhaps she’d intentionally left her partners a sign of where she’d been?

There was a single open door nearby. Taliesen grabbed the man under his arms and pulled him inside. The room turned out to be a library: long and barrel-shaped, the curved ceiling covered in frescoes, the high windows covered by heavy drapes. Bookshelves twice Taliesen’s height stood in rows across the floor. 

The room was quiet, dusty, and dark. There were no candles. The only light came through the door from which Taliesen had entered, plus a thin line of sun across the floor where one set of curtains was open a slit.

Taliesen hauled the man’s body into a reading chair, propping him up as though he’d been napping. The assassin's eyes lingered on the blue-stained mouth. After a second of indecision, he cracked open a thin book and set it gently on top of the man’s face. Clearly, here was the exacting subtlety the Crows had trained him for.

The pages rustled gently as the man began to snore.

There was a sound from the other end of the room - the distinctive creak of leather. Taliesen’s head shot up.

In the darkness, beyond the rows of shelves, he saw a shock of white hair, partially obscured by the curve of a black horn.

As he cast his gaze outward, Taliesen realized the library’s shelves only took up half the room. The floor on the far side was open flagstones. An enormous, unlit fireplace dominated the far wall, with dark-veined marble columns on either side.

Yuria Saraad stood stooped, braced against one column with her hand outstretched. She had her back to him. Her sword was sheathed at her hip.

If she was here, that meant she’d been separated from her employer. That meant Taliesen should leave this room immediately and try to find the man he was actually being paid to kill.

He should.

Taliesen reached down in a swift, silent movement to tug Zevran’s stiletto from his boot. Carrying it in a loose grip, he advanced between the lines of shelves, heading directly for her.

As far as he knew, she hadn’t seen him, but there was no way she’d missed the sound of him entering. It would be more conspicuous if he stayed silent. He had to approach as if he was a concerned stranger.

To his own shock, he managed to sound casual when called out, “Are you alright?”

“Fine. A little light-headed.” Yuria’s voice was low and surprisingly sonorous. Somehow, he’d expected terse and gravelly.

“I didn’t realize anyone was in here. There was a man lying in the hallway.”

“How strange.”

Taliesen wasn’t sure he could pierce Yuria’s cuirass with the thin blade. Instead, he opted to cripple her sword arm. He trained his gaze on her right shoulder. In his mind’s eye, the blade lodged in her flesh deep enough that she’d never raise her arm again.

He drew his hand back and threw.

Yuria didn’t _dodge_ so much as _stagger_ to the right. The stiletto merely grazed her forearm before it clattered to the flagstones. 

When she turned around, her teeth were bared against the pain. Blood trickled down her arm, staining her white sleeve red. But when she met his eyes, her grimace became a cold smile. Her sword left its scabbard in a whisper of steel.

“You really think,” Yuria growled, “that your lot’s got a monopoly on sleep soot?”

 _Fuck._ She’d set him up.

A wave of hot chagrin and anger overcame him. He shrugged his doublet to the floor. In an instant, he’d drawn his shortsword and dagger from their concealed sheaths.

Taliesen charged.

Yuria’s sword caught the line of sunlight from the window. She swatted away a slash from his shortsword, her blade a ribbon of gold.

She peeled away from the column to block his left-handed strike, almost carelessly. The force of her parry alone had Taliesen’s arm aching.

She was as powerful as ever. But while she had the muscle-memory of a lifelong duelist, the lingering poison rendered her movements slow and imprecise.

Her sword's length made it difficult for Taliesen to close the distance between them. With each strike from his shortsword or dagger, he had to overextend his reach. Yuria could effortlessly flick aside each blow with the tip of her blade. 

After a particularly vicious parry, she surprised him by speaking up again. “I should have seen it sooner. But I admit, it was an interesting plan.”

She whirled around him. Taliesen barely got his dagger up in time to block her thrust.

“I’ll be sure to give your compliments to our strategist,” he quipped. His next strike to her collar came up too low, but she dodged like the air was syrup. He scored an impressive gouge into her cuirass.

Yuria staggered backwards. She reached out to catch herself on the heavy curtain. It tore under the strain. Late afternoon light spilled into the room. Bodyguard and assassin blinked in the sudden brightness. 

Yuria used the pause to step away from the window, on the offensive with her next thrust.

She spat onto the floor. “I know you’ve drugged me, but I can’t figure how. Maybe you’ve drugged my employer, too. And you guessed he’d be swayed by a Sister’s plight. Faithful to a fault.” Her next thrust was awkward, and Taliesen had the pleasure of parrying it as if it was nothing. “And I’m sure that ‘thief’ is a member of your squad, trying to get the Don alone on the rooftop right now.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Taliesen had to work to concentrate; his shoulders shook in silent laughter. “But you don’t sound very concerned.”

“My employer can handle himself for a minute or two. That’s all the time I’ll need to finish you.”

He had her moving backwards again. Yuria’s boot caught the edge of the torn curtain and she lost her balance. Her knees hit the ground.

In a moment, Taliesen was behind her with his dagger against her throat. His face was flush with exertion and triumph. “You think so, do you?”

His right side exploded in a blaze of pain.

Taliesen looked down. Yuria had grabbed Zevran’s stiletto off the floor and stabbed backwards. It was buried to the hilt just above his hip.

With a snarl, he drew his dagger across her windpipe. Blood bubbled out beneath his hand. Yuria Saraad’s body sagged in his arms. A moment later, he crumpled beside her.

* * *

It was easy for Zevran to convince the templars of the gravity of the situation. He'd been prepared to offer real theatrics, if necessary. Before he’d even reached the end of the Sister’s tragic tale, one armor-clad woman had already taken off toward the entrance to the convent, shouting to seal the doors.

Once he’d finished, Zevran cheerfully sent the remaining three templars, plus a few frenzied onlookers, in the wrong direction. Back toward the cloister they marched.

Hopefully, it would buy his partners a little time.

Zevran took up his search in the proper wing of the building. On instinct, he found his way to the nearest stairwell and climbed the marble steps two at a time. If _he’d_ been caught stealing with no available exits, he liked to think he could find somewhere inconspicuous to wait out his pursuers. But somehow, other people always went up. Some primitive instinct for freedom.

The staircase took Zevran two floors higher, depositing him on a polished stone landing. Distantly, he caught the sound of running footsteps. It seemed the echoing hallways could be both a curse and a blessing.

He followed the sound, reviewing his mental map. The third floor was mostly storage rooms and empty passages. If the thief was still headed upward, there was only one viable staircase in this wing, and Zevran knew the passage ahead wasn’t the quickest way to get there.

He stopped beside a promising door. When he rattled the iron handle, he found it unlocked, but there was some object wedged behind the door that forced it closed. He had a sneaking suspicion that Rinna was the culprit, guiding the thief toward a particular route upwards. Better to have their quarry predictable.

So Zevran, too, had no choice but to follow the route she’d set out for him.

He prioritized silence over speed as he moved through the hallways. Up here, there were fewer grand works of art. Instead, alcoves were filled with crates of odd-colored candles, dried flowers, or wrapped bolts of cloth: decorations for holidays in other seasons.

At last, he came to the next staircase upward, this one a tight, helix-shell spiral.

At the top, Zevran found himself in the cavernous space above the rafters of the entrance hall. Huge wood support beams criss-crossed over the soot-covered floor. The stone was black from candle smoke that escaped through the cracks in the ceiling below. Although the day was cool, the insulated space was warm and stuffy. On the far side, a single window was thrown open to allow a draft.

By luck or by fate, Zevran caught a glimpse of dark fabric, disappearing through the window and onto the roof beyond.

The assassin crept forward, his footsteps light across the wood beams. When he reached the window, he peered outside.

The autumn afternoon was fading to sunset. Beyond the cathedral, the city vista took his breath away. The low sun gilded every rooftop. Neighborhoods tumbled over the hills and crowded between the canals. In the distance, seagulls drifted over the green-gold terraces of orchards and vineyards.

Don Belacoros stood perhaps ten paces away, his feet planted confidently on the red clay tiles. His half-cape snapped in the wind. There was no sign of Yuria, but Zevran would have noticed if she’d followed him. He pushed his worry to the back of his mind.

“There is nowhere left to run.” The wind stole Belacoros’ words, rendering them faint. “Stand down and be reasonable.” 

Zevran risked poking his head out of the window. He glanced around to get his bearings. The stretch of rooftop was a rough rectangle. To his right, the upper wall of the sanctuary stretched, punctuated by huge, stained glass windows that glittered in the setting sun. Between each window was a tall stone buttress. On the far end of the roof rose the cathedral’s southern belltower. On the remaining side, the roof sloped downward towards a sheer drop to the cobblestones below.

There was a line of cracked and broken tile stretching from the open window, around the bend of the first buttress wall. Evidently, the roof hadn’t been designed to support the weight of anything heavier than roosting birds.

Belacoros began to carefully follow the cracked tiles. “If you turn yourself in to the Watch, you’ll only loose a hand. But even then - ask sincerely for the Maker’s forgiveness, and you’re sure to receive it.”

Zevran stepped out onto the rooftop. The breeze smelled like salt and incense. It sent his hair dancing around his face. His dagger was already drawn.

Then his boot crunched on a piece of clay tile. It seemed to Zevran like the loudest sound he could ever remember making. 

Belacoros spun around. A dagger sprung into his hand from some mechanism at his wrist.

Zevran sighed. No luck that he’d be unarmed, after all.

* * *

Rinna slammed a bar on the wooden door behind her. She sagged against it, catching her breath. Unless Feylen was keen to jump out a window, he truly had no where to go but the roof. She’d blocked every interior door she could reach. Which meant that her own route to the rooftop would be circuitous and annoying.

Fervently, she wished she could simply allow Belacoros and Yuria to catch their thief, then guide them back to the confessional room herself. Of course, there were aspects to this that she couldn’t predict. Maybe Belacoros would decide he’d had enough excitement and save confession for another day. Maybe if Rinna was too insistent it would put him off. Maybe Feylen would blurt out the strange circumstances of his chase and draw Yuria’s suspicion. 

However, the whole idea was moot, because Rinna knew that at the first sign of trouble, her companions would _immediately_ abandon their post and forsake any semblance of a plan. Their spontaneity was fairly predictable.

Before her, at the end of a short corridor, was the entrance to a narrow service staircase. Just climb up one set of stairs, then walk the sanctuary gallery, then up another two flights of stairs, then another hallway, before she would finally find another window that -

Lurking in a door alcove, she spotted a familiar, mousy shape. Rinna recognized the messenger girl she’d spoken with earlier. Nonplussed, the assassin continued onward. 

Audaciously, the girl stepped into the center of the corridor, blocking Rinna’s path.

“Signorina Rinnala - ”

Rinna shoved her hard against a tapestry, her arm an iron bar across the girl’s chest. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed. “The Maker didn’t give you the sense he gave a seagull. What do you want?”

The girl drew a shaky breath, but stood her ground. “I know what you’re doing. I know a faster way onto the roof.”

Rinna released her with a snarl. “Don’t bullshit me.” She got three more steps down the hallway when she heard the girl’s voice again.

“There’s a series of ladders inside the southern belltower. Up from the ground to the eaves.”

Rinna stopped mid-stride and whirled. She got close to the girl again, her voice soft and deadly serious. “Show me.”

“Agree to meet my mistress tonight.”

Rinna let out an exasperated groan. Sometimes, politics was a waiting game of miserable weeks. Other times, it was a game of precious seconds. Rinna counted herself lucky that so far, none of her precious seconds had been bloody ones.

Her fingers lightning quick, she made Andraste’s sign of benediction, dancing her fingertips over her eyes, then her lips, then her heart. “Fine! I’ll do it! Just get me onto the damn roof.”

* * *

As noblemen went, Don Belacoros wasn’t a bad duelist. He knew when to parry and when to dodge aside, and he was sure-footed on the uneven rooftop. But he was no seasoned fighter, and certainly no Antivan Crow. After an opening exchange of feints, Belacoros was already breathing heavily. His opponent hadn’t broken a sweat.

Belacoros managed a clumsy block against Zevran’s incoming slash. Their daggers scraped hilt-to-hilt; the two men were nearly nose-to-nose. 

Belacoros separated their blades with a flick. “So it was all a ploy. The Sister. The thief.”

“Yes. Definitely all part of the plan,” Zevran enthused.

He darted forward with a slash to the Don’s midsection. Belacoros barely twisted out of the way. Zevran’s dagger tore a ragged line down his half-cape. This, like every other move, was calculated to force the man backward, closer to the roof’s edge.

“All this, in the house of the Maker,” Belacoros hissed. “Is there any low your guild won’t stoop to?”

Zevran shrugged. “I could have sworn I heard you say that if we ask for the Maker’s forgiveness, we receive it. That’s an assurance the Crows take very seriously.”

Zevran’s next thrust started high, his arm drawn back to slice across the Don’s neck. Belacoros brought up his dagger to parry, but the assassin’s blade was gone. It was an expert feint. The tip of Zevran’s dagger dipped down and stopped precisely above Belacoros’ navel.

With his left hand, Zevran grabbed the man’s lapels to hold him steady. With his right, he adjusted his grip on the dagger, angling it upward so with one thrust, he’d dig under his ribcage to bury six inches of steel in Belacoros' heart.

“However,” Zevran said mildly, “now be a good moment for _you_ to start asking. I understand you missed your appointment for confession.”

A crossbow bolt slammed into the roof beside them, shattering a section of tile with a crack like lightning. Belacoros yelped. Zevran nearly lost his grip on the Don’s lapels.

Zevran’s eyes darted upwards. There, at the top of the belltower window, he caught a glimpse of white fabric, flapping in the wind like a sail.

He’d never seen Rinna miss a shot like that. Was she compromised? Was it on purpose? Zevran’s focus shattered, then re-knit with sudden understanding. 

He cracked a grim smile.

He adjusted the angle on his dagger. Then he shoved Belacoros hard with the flat of his blade, until the nobleman was forced to take a step backward. Then another. On his third step, Belacoros’ right foot found only air.

He fell.

Far below, the sound of his landing was quiet, but memorable. 

Zevran turned on his heel. Mercifully, the crossbow bolt hadn’t lodged deeply into the tile. A brief tug, and he carried it tightly in a gloved fist.

He disappeared back through the window from which he’d arrived. With a squeal of iron hinges, the window shut behind him.

Then there was no sound on the rooftop but the whipping wind, the cry of gulls, and the distant roar of the sea. 

Behind a stone buttress, Feylen got unsteadily to his feet. He’d spent the last five minutes knelt in fervent prayer.

* * *

The young templar thundered up the stairs, sweat plastering his shaggy hair to the back of his neck. His attempted trip to the East Market had been interrupted by an incredible commotion at the cathedral entrance. Once he’d deduced what had happened, he’d taken up the thief’s pursuit with haste.

Behind him in the stairwell, a gaggle of onlookers jogged to keep up. The band emerged from the window onto the rooftop like water pouring from a spigot.

The templar squinted into the setting sun. With his eyes, he followed a swath of cracked and broken tiles to the edge of the roof. 

Standing alone at the crumbling edge was a dark-haired, elven man. He was craning his neck to look over the edge. His mouth was open in an expression of dumbfounded horror.

The templar’s armored boots crunched against the tile. The elf’s head whipped up, His face froze.

Feylen offered no resistance when his hands were bound behind his back. He tried to explain, of course. He hadn’t actually seen what had happened, but heard sounds of a fight, conversation, then something like a thunderclap. It was an absurd story, really.

When the templar-led crowd departed back downstairs, all were assured that justice would be served.


	5. The fire at the heart of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _For you are the fire at the heart of the world,_  
>  _And comfort is only yours to give._
> 
> _\- Andraste's Prayer before the siege of Minrathous_

Flames licked between the narrow window bars on the cremation retort. The trio was saved from the worst of the smell by the flue that funneled greasy, black smoke into the night sky.

Even under cover of darkness, it had been an ordeal to maneuver Yuria’s stiffening body down from the library and into the cathedral’s basement mortuary. Taliesen couldn’t be much help; they wouldn’t let him risk reopening the wound in his side.

The Crows could hardly leave Yuria where she fell. It would poke quite a hole in the story of, “nobleman falls to his death while attempting to apprehend a thief” if his bodyguard was found with her throat slit.

Yuria’s corpse had been too tall to fit into the retort. Although she was Andrastean, they hadn’t felt compelled to put her inside in one piece.

By morning, there’d be no evidence but ashes. Scraped from the chamber of stone and steel, some Sister would place them into an anonymous urn, beside a dozen other urns of the city’s indigent dead.

The three assassins stood in silence, light from the flames dancing across their faces. Taliesen had his weight rolled to his left leg, his hand splayed lightly over the bandages on his right side. Zevran crossed his arms over his chest. Between them, Rinna heaved a sigh.

“You shouldn’t have gone after her,” Rinna said, soft and a little sour.

Taliesen shrugged. “It worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

“Only because she missed your kidney, so we had a strong enough healing potion to stabilize you.”

“Next time, don’t be such a convincing actress. I still can’t _believe_ Belacoros ran after your damn thief.”

Zevran spoke up. “A bit of a shame, don’t you think? Convenient of course. But it’s likely they’ll find him guilty of murder tomorrow.”

Rinna frowned as she glanced over at him. “What does that matter? The Don's dead. Better yet, it looks like the Crows had nothing to do with it.”

“But that was quite the risk, yes? Missing your shot and assuming I’d take the hint?”

“It worked out in the end, didn’t it?” She threw him a wink. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

Taliesen interjected. “Where _did_ you get that crossbow?”

“Stole it from a templar’s guard post on the third floor.”

“Huh. Nicely done.”

Something shifted and popped within the retort. Crackling bone didn’t sound as much like firewood as they might have hoped. 

Taliesen stepped forward and slid the grate closed. The fire’s roar quieted. The room darkened from orange to amber. For a few minutes, the only sound was the soft lick of flames and the distant autumn wind.

Taliesen spoke up. “I got your message from Zevran, by the way.”

“Did you?” Rinna raised an eyebrow. “I anxiously await your reply.”

Taliesen wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her against his left side. A grin broke through Rinna’s composure as she leaned into the line of his body. When she tilted her chin upward, his lips found hers. Then Taliesen had her bottom lip between his teeth, and she couldn’t help her soft, pleased mew.

Desire curled in Zevran’s stomach. He found himself smiling, almost absurdly, suddenly giddy with pride, affection, and relief. His smile only widened when Rinna broke the kiss to look over at him.

She held out her hand. Zevran took it and kissed her knuckles. Rinna pulled him forward until he was in her arms.

He felt Taliesen’s hand on his shoulder. Callused fingers inched upward until they tangled into the hair at the back of Zevran’s neck. Taliesen’s grip on his hair was just hard enough to coax a groan from Zevran’s throat when Rinna’s lips met his.

Pressed between their bodies, Zevran felt the rumble of Taliesen’s voice. “I’m exhausted. Let’s change into clothes without blood on them, then hire a carriage back to the apartment. My treat.”

“I can’t tell you how lovely that sounds.” Rinna leaned up to plant a kiss on Taliesen’s neck. Then with a sigh, she disentangled herself from her lovers. “But I’ll have to meet you later. I have someone I need to see, first.”

“Someone more interesting than the two of us?” Zevran slung his arm around Taliesen’s shoulders to emphasize his point.

Rinna brushed some ash from her ruined Sister’s robe, smiling wryly. “No, not at all more interesting. But unfortunately necessary.”

Taliesen’s voice took on an edge. “You’re going to deliver the report without us, aren’t you? Spin the story your way.”

Her eyes flashed. “No. I'm not. Unlike you, I’ve got better things to do than tie myself in knots trying to impress Eoman.”

“You nearly fucked up this whole job just trying to make Belacoros’ death look more impressive - ”

“Actually, I’ll be a little late returning, too.”

Rinna and Taliesen both turned to look at Zevran. Their frustration with one another faded to chagrin.

When Taliesen spoke, it was with a resigned little smile. “What, you’ve both got secret errands now?”

Zevran laughed easily. “Hardly a secret. There is a basin of poisoned holy water that is certain to cause an unpleasant accident in the morning if I don't replace its contents.”

Rinna looked aghast. “Maker’s breath, Zev. What are you doing hanging around here?”

“Enjoying your company, of course.”

Later, he’d wonder if his voice betrayed his sincerity. 

* * *

‘Sincere’ was not the same as ‘truthful,’ however. 

Before he’d raced down the hallway after Taliesen, Zevran had paused to add a second solution to the basin of holy water, neutralizing the poison he’d deposited. There were no careless Crows who lived to adulthood.

Breaking into the Vespara District watch station was fairly straightforward. Only a pair of guards waited up on duty, keeping themselves awake with dicing and watered wine. It was easy enough to drug the wineskin they kept in a side room, before they decanted it into their tarred leather cups.

Rinna would have called it a waste of sleep soot. But it wasn’t as though Zevran would ever tell her he’d been here.

Once the two watchmen were snoring soundly, sneaking past them was just as easy as stealing one of their cloaks, then plucking a ring of keys off a belt loop. It was a matter of practicality; lockpicking would have wasted precious minutes.

A passage off the main room branched into a handful of holding cells. All were empty, save one.

There was dark-haired elf curled against the stone wall. Slats of moonlight fell across his face from a small, barred window. At the rattle of the cell door, he started.

“What - ”

“I’d keep quiet if I were you.” Zevran muffled the sound of the keyring with his gloved left hand, while with his right, he tried different keys in the lock.

The elf stared at him, wide-eyed but silent, until Zevran found a key that slid into the mechanism and turned.

Zevran crossed the cell in three paces and knelt to take the man’s shackled wrist. If he’d been any thinner, he might have slipped free of the metal on his own. Zevran began to flick through the keyring again to find a likely candidate.

The elf hissed, “Who are you?”

“Someone who gives very good advice. So listen closely, hmm?” Zevran made sure he got full eye contact. “Once I finish this, get out of here as fast as you can.”

He tried a few more keys until one slid into the lock. It turned with a click and the shackle sprung open. The two of them got to their feet together. They were of a height.

Wordlessly, Zevran passed over the guard's stolen cloak. The elf took it and wrapped it around himself, pulling the hood over his face. If he noticed the weight of a small coin purse in one pocket, he made no comment.

He looked up with an expression that was difficult to read.

Zevran watched him leave from the watch station’s back door. After a pause, he left the same way, ducking into a lamplit alley.

He found himself grateful that the man hadn’t asked, "Why." He wasn’t sure he could answer.

In the morning, there’d be a report to deliver their masters. Tonight, he had two lovers waiting for him. In their imperfect embrace, Zevran would be as close as he’d ever been to freedom.

**Author's Note:**

> My recipient used the phrase “full artistic liberty” in their prompt, so uh - here you go!
> 
> Huge thanks to the mods of this exchange for checking in with me and answering lots of questions!
> 
> Dedicated with gratitude to the members of my favorite server. Thanks for calling sprints and being loads of fun to talk writing with. Y’all have brought incredible joy to a rough couple of months <3


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